Snippets of Truth, Here or There
by Shadowfire2013
Summary: Drabbles that delve into that galaxy far, far away. Chapter 2, Boba Fett.
1. Jaina and Palpatine

Disclaimer: George Lucas is the owner of the sandbox called Star Wars. I'm just playing in it.

Author Note: To eliminate the steady stream of plot bunnies that continue to infest my mind, I've decided to create a series of drabbles that will, hopefully, increase the amount of free space in this head of mine. (If you have any requests, just message me)

1. _NJO_

One day in the middle of a war that she could have never imagined, Jaina Solo will look across the hangar and count the number of pilots left with seven fingers. She won't be surprised at all because her ears are still ringing from the screams that had erupted out of her comm system but the sight will still leave her standing there as vocal as a mute.

A lifetime later, she'll turn to her battered X-wing, trail her eyes past the pock marks hammered into the transparisteel cockpit, past the hole that's eating away at that twelve ship crest, past the still simmering scar that stretches from the landing gear to the astromech socket and gaze at the spot just above the ship's lower port wing and see only the rushing wind of hyperspace.

It's _then_ that she knows that this war will kill her.

She hopes her father can forgive her.

2. _Pre-TPM_

Ironically enough, the man who would become Supreme Chancellor originally started out as a simple boy on a small, insignificant planet with a dream and a passion.

He wanted to be a sculptor, he'd say to anyone who would ask- much to the chagrin of his parents who had been hoping that someone in the family would finally secure a place in the political scene. While all the other children were busy volunteering in various charity organizations, prancing about with their friends or--Force forbid--actually working, anyone burdened with the disease called curiosity could find him in his own little studio peeling away the stone with a practiced eye and an undersized vibroblade.

For days on end he'd eat, sleep and work in there, slowly but surely revealing painfully exquisite masterpieces of fictional gods, ancient heroes, and modern day politicians. And at the end of each project he would back right up to the walls and just stare as if he'd only recently been cured of blindness.

Each time he'd end up looking away with the unmistakable air of someone who had climbed a mountain only to find that that the clouds have come in and all anyone can see is bottomless gray.

His mother, who rather prided herself on her ability to detect even the slightest wrinkle in his disposition, asked the young Palpatine why he toiled away at such projects when he could be doing other things, more enjoyable things--like politics for example.

He turned his head toward and his face looked torn between annoyance or surprise. He paused for a moment, drawing breath into his still developing lungs and looked her straight in the eye and said this.

_I sculpt so that I can understand the essence that made those people so unique…so worth remembering but…_

He looked away.

_… everytime that I capture their essence I find that they are just like you and father and are but simple creatures with even simpler needs that managed to be remembered by virtue of being in the right place at the right time._

A pause.

_It makes me sick._

She never asked him about his hobby again.


	2. Boba Fett

**Week 1** (07.07.06)  
1. beginnings

The pale pattern of rain against the window. The blinds half open and the ever present darkness about the lonely cities. Sparse against the horizon and the toiling sea. The sofa pliant and soft under him and next to that boy, his father. Made of cinnamon and the slight wafting of burnt meat and taut muscles stretched against the shirt. His calloused hand light against the boy's neck. The basset voice thrumming in the air. Ringing in lost deeds and unknown worlds and things which the boy cannot know.

This is how Boba remembers his father.

2. middles

When the boy walks through the city, in the stale corridors, there are skewed mirrors about him. Like old carnival glass skewed and warped by flames and heat. His reflections stretched and widened and his face made into a million cruel parodies.

And they watch him. All dim eyes and tandem movements and refrained training patterns. He pauses and presses his hands to the window and looks down. They blink as one. He leaves, in no small hurry.

Dad?

What?

I was the first one.

His father smiles. You were the first.

Good, the boy says. Originals, he knows, are prized.

3. ends

Time does not stop. In the rising dust cloud and the crimson sun lodged in his throat. It moves on amidst the whining blaster sirens and the dying cries and the smell of cooked meat. His veins pound against that bronze skin and he cannot speak. Cannot utter a word. To say some vile curse or unheard pleading to the limestone grotto.

Father? Not dead. Not gone.

When the arena calms, he goes down to it and finds the bereft helm. He bows his head and looks into the darkened visor. And sees only himself.

Then, he leaves.

4. first

He closes his eyes and rests his hands on the lacquered wood. Listens to the hundred murmurs that come across in waves and crescendos and tides of unknown tongues. Suffused and mingled together like droplets in a pond. Like droplets laced against the transparent glass and falling down to the deep brime. All the way down.

There. His target's voice five meters to his right.

He opens his eyes and interposed between them is a woman. All curves and thrown hair and a curled half-smirk.

His mouth waters.

Aren't you a little young?

Hmph.

Vel, she says and slips him a drink.

5. last

They bring him up in chains and a stiff neck suit. Up the aisle as the crowds stay hushed. The steel shackles clacking. The insects buzzing in the air. The slight taste of impending moira like a whiskey.

How does he plead?

Guilty. The boy speaks for himself and it's like gravel on the tongue.

The weak masses break and the Judge looks into him. Through the fiber of his skin.

Are you sorry?

He glances back at his wife.

He can't say he is. The dead man deserved it.

He leaves and doesn't look towards her.

The dead man deserved it.


End file.
